


Beginnings

by kisssanitygoodbye



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkwardness, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisssanitygoodbye/pseuds/kisssanitygoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fenris suddenly shows interest in him and his life, Carver doesn't know how to handle it, so he settles for awkward flirting. Terribly awkward flirting. Luckily, Fenris doesn't seem to be put off. Quite the contrary, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for yarnandteaisallineed on tumblr :)

Carver watches as Fabian surveys the battlefield, taking in the carnage they have caused before searching every dead bandit’s pockets with thoughtless routine, grinning whenever his fingers close around a pouch full of coins.

No matter how comfortable he gets with the killing--and it does feel different here in Kirkwall, not at all like it did back with the King’s Army--what Carver still can’t do is help his brother with collecting their little bonus rewards. It feels dirty, as if every silver is drenched in their victims’ blood, and Carver doesn’t want to spend money he feels he didn’t earn anymore than he wants the life he has to lead in this sorry excuse for a city.

Fabian doesn’t seem to mind so much, if his current cheerfulness is any indication, or he’s just a better actor than Carver will ever be.

“A lot of coin this time,” Fabian says when he finally straightens himself again and shoves their profit into his pockets, walking past Carver, Fenris, and Isabela with a pleased smile on his face. “You’ll get your share tonight at the Hanged Man, unless you don’t trust me, of course, in which case you can always come by Gamlen’s place and threaten to kill me. That might speed things up a little.”

He doesn’t wait for any of them to answer before he starts walking down the hill, a confident bounce in his gait that Carver is all too familiar with, and he has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Your brother is a very strange man,” Fenris murmurs next to him after Isabela has left with a smile and a wink, and Carver really wants to laugh, but Fenris is a strange man too and makes him feel terribly self-conscious, so he settles for a snort.

“Tell me about it. I have to share a room with him.”

It’s Fenris who laughs now, a deep, gravelly sound that Carver is still so unfamiliar with, but he knows that he likes it a lot more than his silence.

Carver watches as Fenris adjusts his gloves--they really do look like talons--and starts walking, turning his head after a few steps to see if Carver is following, and Carver hurries after him, his greatsword bouncing against his back with every step he takes.

“My condolences,” Fenris says quietly, giving Carver a sideway glance, the ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

Carver clears his throat, feeling himself start to blush, and that’s ridiculous, because there is really no reason to. “Ha… uh… yeah… thank you.” He coughs to get rid of the weird lump in his throat and pulls back his shoulders, straightening himself a little more. “I don’t hear that very often. Well, there’s a lot of things I don’t hear often. Most people are too busy kissing my brother’s feet to actually talk to me.”

He stops, because he might have already said too much, because he and Fenris are not friends and Fenris is kind of intimidating and it feels really, really strange to tell him this and Carver has no idea why he even said it in the first place. Stupid.

“Hmm.” That’s one thing Carver has already learned about the elf. Fenris often talks in sounds, in little grunts and hums and snorts that convey more meaning than other people’s actual sentences do. Carver has no idea how he does it. “But I am not one of those people.”

“No, I guess not.” Carver nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his breeches. He remembers Fenris’ and Fabian’s little pissing matches all too well. Most of them had ended with one of them giving a disgusted snort and ignoring the other for the next hour or so, and Carver had found himself between two very disgruntled men who had probably waited for him to join the argument, but the problem is that Carver has no idea which side he is on.

He doesn’t think that all mages are evil. He doesn’t think they’re all ticking time bombs, just waiting to go off one day. And how could he, with a family like that? His brother is probably the strongest person he knows--he’d never say it out loud, though, and definitely not to Fabian himself--and Father had been so brave and wise and funny, and Bethany, well… Bethany had been everything. He can still feel a stabbing pain in his chest whenever he thinks of her, as if his lungs momentarily forget how to function in a world without her.

But she had been scared, hadn’t she? He remembers her nightmares, how she would thrash and cry and talk in her sleep, calling out for him, for Fabian, for Father. She had always had doubts as to whether a life on the run was really better than a life in the Circle, and she’d confessed this to him, late at night when Fabian was asleep so he wouldn’t hear, and she’d made him promise to never tell anyone. Carver promised her many things back in Lothering. That he would keep her secrets. That he would come back from Ostagar, alive and unharmed. That he would do everything to keep the demons at bay.

Maybe she would have been happier in the Circle. He doesn’t know, and neither does he know what to think. Fenris and Fabian always speak with unwavering conviction, with fire in their eyes and cutting tongues, and Carver isn’t convinced at all, about anything, really, and that’s just bloody typical, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why people always ignore him when it comes to making decisions.

“Your mind is somewhere else.”

Carver starts, meeting Fenris’ inquisitive eyes. “Yes, I… Just thinking.” He can already see Kirkwall in the distance, the pretty parts of it at least, hiding the rest of the city from travellers coming from inland with their imposing white buildings.

Fenris nods, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. It’s fascinating how the elf’s demeanour can change in the blink of an eye. Carver has seen him in battle--and even though he has fought Templars and blood mages and abominations, he can’t imagine anything more scary than meeting Fenris alone in a dark alley, sword drawn and tattoos glowing. And when Fenris feels cornered, it’s not hard to make the connection between him and his name. But now, he seems calm, relaxed, and pleased with the day he’s been having so far, and it’s hard to imagine that this almost cheerful man next to Carver could ever turn into a feral warrior who rips people’s hearts out of their chests.

“I will be at the Hanged Man tonight,” Fenris says, giving him that sideway glance and almost unnoticeable smile again.

“I… alright?” Not the best answer Carver has ever given, but Fenris can be very, very confusing, and what is that supposed to mean, anyway?

He chuckles, inclining his head, and this time, he leaves the strand of hair where it is, half-covering one of his eyes. “In case you want to talk to someone who exists outside of your mind?”

And now Fenris really smiles, a genuine, fully visible smile that--for some inexplicable reason--makes warmth spread in Carver’s stomach, and he kind of resents that, because it means that he can’t possibly be angry now, even though he is about ninety percent sure that Fenris is making fun of him, just a little.

Carver can’t look at Fenris anymore, so he lets his eyes sweep over the roofs of Hightown, mere minutes away now. “I’ll probably be there, too. I mean, if nothing else comes up.” And he wants to slap his hand against his forehead, because Fenris knows that there is nothing that could possibly come up. Nothing _ever_ does. The watered-down ale at the Hanged Man is the highlight of most of Carver’s days.

“Alright.”

And when they finally pass through the city gates, Carver turns left and Fenris has to turn right, but he lingers for a second, head slightly bowed and eyes clear and alert. They’re really very pretty, Carver thinks, and where in the Void did that come from?

“So maybe I will see you tonight? If nothing else comes up?” Fenris asks, and he smiles that not-quite-smile again that makes Carver’s guts tighten, and he simply nods, not quite trusting his voice.

And then Fenris is gone, and Carver takes a deep breath before he starts the walk down to Lowtown, quiet anticipation prickling along his spine.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

It’s hot in Varric’s suite, and Carver can feel drops of sweat running down his back, right between his shoulderblades, but he doesn’t mind. He is nursing his fourth mug of ale--which means he has passed the tipsy stagebut isn’t drunk yet--and Fenris is sitting across from him, cup of wine in his hand, watching the other end of the table, where Varric is busy telling a story, gesticulating widely to accentuate the most hilarious parts. Carver follows Fenris’ gaze and sees Fabian howling with laughter, one arm casually thrown over Isabela’s shoulders, and he is not entirely sure, but he can’t see Isabela’s right hand, and that could mean that it’s not on Fabian’s back like he initially assumed, but a little further south.

Carver snorts, going back to his ale. “I thought my brother had a crush on the healer.” He looks up, and Fenris gives him a crooked smirk.

“I don’t think your brother is the type of man who lets himself be restricted by something as harmless as a _crush_.” The way he says the word lets Carver know that he normally wouldn’t have used it, and it sounds kind of adorable in Fenris’ gravelly voice. “Or am I wrong?”

“Nah, guess you’re right.” Carver still remembers the rumours he used to hear back in Lothering, about Fabian and the merchant’s boy, and Fabian and the patron’s boy, and… _wait a minute_. “Well, but I’m also pretty sure that my brother only likes men.”

This time, Fenris chuckles. “Isabela seems to have that effect on people.”

And now Carver really wants to ask whether she has that _effect_ on Fenris too, but he’s definitely not drunk enough to not care about the consequences that question might bring, so he swallows it down with another mouthful of ale. On the other end of the table, people are ordering another round, and Carver can hear the slur in Fabian’s voice. Mother will not be pleased in the morning.

“You’re going to join your brother’s expedition, are you not?” Fenris asks, leaning back in his chair and propping one leg up, half-crossing it over the other, wiggling bare toes against the stuffy air, and Carver still doesn’t get how Fenris can stand to walk around without shoes.

Carver shrugs, not wanting the bitterness to take over but failing miserably. “I bloody well hope so. Fabian said he’s going to take me, but Mother doesn’t want me to join him. She’s worried, says she can’t bear the thought of losing both her sons too.” And as usual when the topic of loss comes up, the next breath he takes burns in his lungs. “But I earned the right to go. I’ve worked just as hard as Fabian has.”

Fenris nods, taking a sip of wine and watching Carver with those huge, green eyes. “I understand. Having your efforts and sacrifices recognised. It’s important.”

“Exactly!” Carver didn’t mean to raise his voice, but this is the first time that someone is telling him this, the first time someone understands the point he’s been trying to get across, the first time someone _listens_ to him, and it’s hard not to get excited.

Fenris nods again, looking thoughtful, looking as if he’d like to say more but doesn’t exactly know how, and Carver knows the feeling.

“What about you?” he asks, because he is _pretty_ sure that Fabian has made arrangements without letting Carver in on them. That bastard.

“Hmm.” Fenris’ eyes briefly flicker over to Fabian and back again. “He has asked for my assistance, yes."

“Well, let’s hope that we’ll both end up _actually_ going, then,” Carver says, and proceeds to drown the last remains of his frustration in a few more mugs of ale.

~*~*~*~*~

The night air is like a splash of ice-cold water against Carver’s flushed cheeks, and he takes a deep breath as the door falls shut behind him, muffling the yelling and laughter from the drunken crowd within.

Next to him, Fenris does the same, getting rid of the smoke and stale air in his lungs, before he takes the first few tentative steps towards the marketplace and stops, turning back to Carver, but before he can say his goodbyes, Carver has caught up to him, and Fenris frowns. “Your uncle’s house is in the other direction.”

And Carver is thankful for his already heated cheeks, because he can feel a new flush wash over his face. “A nice little walk might do me some good. Clear my head, you know?” His voice sounds so foreign to his own ears. Is he slurring?

Fenris inclines his head, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “Of course.”

He doesn’t say more, just turns around again and walks, and there is so much that Carver wants to ask him now that they’re truly alone; why he understands what everyone else doesn’t seem to get at all; why he never wears shoes; why he started reaching out to Carver in the first place; why his eyes are so bloody green.

Fenris is a silent walker, though, and so Carver stays silent too, just looking at Fenris once in a while, only to realise that he is looking everywhere else, eyes darting around in the darkness, always wary, always vigilant, and Carver kind of understands that, because despite having the run-down mansion to call a home, Fenris hasn’t stopped running yet.

There are _many_ things that Carver wants to ask. But Fenris is the type of person who rather tells than answers, and Carver doesn’t want to ruin this… whatever _this_ is. It’s nice.

They reach Fenris’ mansion far too quickly, though, and Fenris stops in front of the door and looks at him, the light of the lantern above reflecting in his eyes, and Carver needs to say something, he needs to…

“Your eyes are very green.” Oh, Maker. “I mean, they’re pretty.” Oh, _Maker_. “I mean, pretty for a man… I mean… I like them. A lot.”

Carver can feel himself cringe, and he is pretty sure that he wouldn’t mind it if he died now, if the Maker decided right this second to not ignore humanity anymore and send a bolt of lightning down to show everyone that he really existed, and if that particular lightning bolt hit Carver right in the chest and stopped his heart. The Chantry would probably declare him another prophet or… something similar, posthumously, but he’d be alright with that. At least he’d be dead. A dead prophet. Like Andraste. Only less heroic.

But Fenris is still not glowing blue, and he doesn’t look angry either. Or horrified. Fenris is… laughing? And coughing. A coughing laugh.

He briefly covers his mouth with his fist, and when he lets it sink, there is only a tiny smile on his lips, and his head is lowered so Carver can’t see his eyes anymore, hidden beneath strands of white hair. “Hmm… thank you.” And Carver _really_ likes the sound Fenris makes deep in his throat.

One of Fenris’ hands goes to the door, and with a light push, it swings open. Right. He never locks the door. Nothing in there that anyone would want to steal.

“So I will see you tomorrow?” Fenris asks, already half inside his mansion, and now he meets Carver’s gaze straight on, which is probably a good sign, right?

Carver frowns, and his knees feel really wobbly, so he presses a hand against the wall. “Tomorrow?”

Fenris laughs again. “The Bone Pit?”

“Right! Yes! The Bone Pit! Absolutely.”

“Get some sleep, Hawke.”

And Carver doesn’t have time to think about the fact that he really likes how Fenris calls him Hawke, because there is a tattooed hand in his field of vision now. For a second, Carver thinks that Fenris is going to touch his cheek, but then he reaches for the sleeve of Carver’s shirt, rolled up at the crook of his arm--still pressed against the wall--and _unrolls_ it, sliding it down his forearm until he reaches Carver’s wrist, and then the hand is gone, and Carver’s skin is on fire.

“It’s getting cold,” Fenris murmurs, that half-smile still on his face, and then the door falls shut behind him, leaving Carver alone in the dim light of the lantern, head spinning and stomach tightening.

He lets out a quiet groan and rests his head against the arm that Fenris touched mere seconds ago, wondering how he will be able to fight tomorrow, with _him_ there, looking at Carver, talking to him, maybe even touching him again, and with a twinge of embarrassment and remorse, Carver realises that he has to stop making fun of Fabian for his _little crush_ on the healer, because now, he might have developed one of his own.

  
  
  



End file.
